Verisimilitude (Rewrite)
by cdog0803
Summary: Alana Storm, bastard of Renly Baratheon, goes north with her family to name Eddard the Hand of the King. There, she finds friends, as well as love. However, war is on the horizon, and with it, something dark and evil. Robb/OC.
1. Chapter 1

**Thank you to everyone who is reading this, whether you read the original or not. I'm trying to write a lot more, so hopefully I'll be able to update more frequently. I'm much more pleased with this story than any of the other ones. Enjoy!**

Chapter 1

The Sept was lit by the morning light that filtered through the windows high up on the brightly painted wall, as well as by the candles piled around each statue of the Seven, the candles already burning low despite the early hour. The sun was just barely cresting the horizon, painting the sky and the sea it rose over in shades of orange. Alana didn't have time to watch the sun rise, the more devout followers of the Seven usually filtered into the Sept as soon as the sun had cleared the sun had cleared the horizon and had only just finished lighting the candles. She still needed to make certain that the Sept was ready for visitors.

Not for the first time, she cursed her pride, and everything else that had brought her here.

She had made a deal with her father that so long as he didn't make her spend the day knitting or sewing with the rest of the ladies of King's Landing ("I'm not even a real lady," she had complained, and Renly pursed his lips like he always did whenever Alana brought up her illegitimacy. She didn't need anyone to tell her that he was embarrassed she was a bastard, he told her well enough with his reactions, with his winces and heavy sighs when he thought she couldn't hear), she would keep herself occupied at the Great Sept of Baelor, setting up the candles and making sure that the books were all organized correctly in the boxes at the back of the Sept. _The Seven-Pointed Star_ went on the top (the words on the leather cover gilded with real gold), as the sermon began with the Septon reading from it, passages praising the glory of the seven. In the middle of the pile was the copies of _The Song of the Seven_, similarly gilded but this time with golden thread rather than actual gold. Lastly, on the bottom, was a singular copy of _Maiden, Mother, and Crone_, purchased only because Alana had found it from a book merchant at Flea Bottom, and proceeded to demand the High Septon to buy it. It was a small victory, Alana knew, but futile, knowing that the majority of those who attended the sermons couldn't read, but Alana would sometimes be fortunate enough to get a chance to read from it to young children as their parents prayed. They would sit around her in a circle, one sitting on her lap, as she read to them, children of noblemen and peasants alike, all sitting wide-eyed and smiling.

"Here already, Alana?" came a familiar voice behind her. Alana set down the last candle at the base of the statue of the Stranger and turned around to see the High Septon, bleary-eyed and yawning, his crystal crown tilting dangerously to the side. "I thought you didn't come in until after the sun had risen."

Alana shook her head, feeling her long black hair swing behind her, tied up in its braid. "If I come in that late, I'd be forced to rush in order to get everything ready in time."

The High Septon yawned again noisily, raising a hand to cover his mouth a half second later. "I can't possibly imagine getting up so early. I envy your youthful energy."

She shrugged. "It's just a simple matter of going to bed early and rising early. It might be in your best interests to consider trying it."

At this the High Septon laughed and shook his head, so hard the crystal crown threatened to fall over. "I could never fall asleep early enough to wake up at this time and feel well rested. I'll leave that up to you. Keep waking up at whatever time allows you to keep up the good work." At that, he turned around, his white and gold robes flowing at the sudden motion, his sandals slapping loudly on the marble floor.

"Wait, Ser…" her voice failed her as stumbled over what to call him. He wasn't a knight, so she couldn't call him Ser, and he wasn't a lord. The High Septons, after ascending to the office, will give up their names and simply be known as "The High Septon."

"Yes, Alana?" He didn't stop, simply continued walking across the altar, forcing her to jog to catch back up to him. _He has short legs_, Alana noticed, as she was able to catch up to him in just a few short strides.

"I was thinking," she began, now that she was walking next to him, "Maybe we should get another copy of _Maiden, Mother, and Crone_. The only one we have is starting to get a little worn, and it-"

"I'm going to stop you right there, Alana." He reached the altar, between the statue of the Crone and the Stranger. "We're pressed for gold, and the books are not a major part of our sermons. Most of our visitors can't even read, and the rest don't want to. The only books we need are for me to read to them, and we only need one copy for that. The one we have will do fine."

"But you recently bought a whole new set of golden incense holders," she protested.

"Because it's important that the commoners see the power of the Faith, and the beauty of the gods," he explained, his patience infuriating to Alana. "If the Faith is to appear weak, we would lose followers, or be open to heresy."

Alana bit back a retort that sprung to her lips, begging for her to spit it out at him, to put him in his place. "I see."

The High Septon patted her on the arm and smiled. "I'm glad you understand. Would you mind moving my podium over here? Today's sermon focuses on how death is a natural part of life, and I feel that that is best personified through the Crone and the Stranger. Afterwards, I need you to pick up the candlesticks from the blacksmith at the tip of the street of steel. There are quite a few of them, and they are bound to be heavy, so you ought to bring a horse to carry them." Without waiting for a response, he began to walk away, adjusting his crystal crown as he went.

What went unspoken was that in addition to moving the podium, a heavy wooden stand that would be a pain to drag all the way across the hall, she would have to rotate each one of the pews to face where the Septon planned on speaking. Alana sighed, raising her head to look at the statue of the Stranger, desperate for anything to allow her to stall from the task at hand.

The statue stood tall, easily three or four times her height, carved from stone and painted by the finest artisans in all of Westeros. The Stranger looked like a man, wearing black robes carved so well that they looked as though it was made real cloth. He had short black hair underneath his hood, and eyes that were so dark they looked as black as his robes.

Alana had been to Storm's End before, several times, in fact, though she hadn't stayed very long on any of the occasions, with Renly always needing to return to advise Robert as a the master of laws of the small council. The Sept at Storm's End didn't have a magnificent marble statue of any of the Seven, but instead had a painting of each one. Whoever painted the Stranger had depicted him as a grinning skeleton, its bones withered and dried and cracked, portrayed as a being that took pleasure in taking lives.

_It's a small comfort to think of something like that taking your father or mother's life,_ Alana thought. But this one was different. The statue looked like someone one might come across on the street, as a pilgrim or a brother of the Faith. Alana sighed again, and turned around, her dress splaying outwards at the motion, and she began to make her way towards the podium, preparing across the room._ We spend so much time worrying about what will happen after we die, that we forget to truly live, she thought._

* * *

><p><em>"How long do you think you will remain here?" The High Septon asked, as Alana finally finished carrying in the box of books the Septon had shipped all the way from Andalos, supposedly the birthplace of the Faith of the Seven.<em>

_ "My father said so long as I continue to help, I can continue to come here." Alana made a face. "My other alternative is sewing with the queen and her friends."_

_ "You are helping, considerably so." He began to thread his hands together, as though he were making a decision. "Would you consider a position as a septa? You are doing so well, especially with the children. You could come here and help every day."  
>Alana froze. She had never considered becoming a septa before. She would be able to read to the children every day, and would be able to assist the High Septon. It's not as though Renly would ever be able to convince anyone to marry the bastard daughter of a third son. She had no duty to advance her family name. "I've never thought about it," she confessed.<em>

_ The High Septon nodded. "Well you'd start off as a silent sister, to get closer to the Stranger. However, you would not have to remain silent forever. You could then become closer to one of the gods, be it the Smith, the Warrior, or the Crone."_

_ "That sounds wonderful." Alana was beginning to get excited, her lips tugging upwards and her heart beating faster. She could ask Renly to give her his blessing as soon as she got home, and she was sure he would. She could see herself in the future, standing in front of a crowd of people who have come hundreds of leagues to hear her speak. She would make them laugh, make them cry, and make them think. Alana wanted this. She wanted this more than she had wanted anything else before in her life. Suddenly, an idea occurred to her. "Do you think I could one day be a High Septon?" She could be the very first female High Septon. The thought sent shivers down her spine._

_ The High Septon chuckled and ruffled her hair. "Of course not, silly."_

_ Alana felt her chest tighten at his words, and she swallowed hard, her smile long since forgotten. "Why not?" she asked, devastated. _

_ "You're a girl," the High Septon answered, as though it explained everything. "Girls have an equally important job. They birth the next kings and high septons." He patted her on the arm as though he didn't just crush her very hopes and dreams. "And you'd make a great septa," he concluded, smiling down at her._

* * *

><p>Alana arrived back at the Red Keep after the sun was high in the air, not quite noon, but close. She had left when the High Septon had begun his sermon, his monotone voice droning on behind her as she mounted her horse and rode away. Her mouth watered at the thought of her usual breakfast, a meal of crispy fried fish and boiled eggs, along with a goblet of milk. She had left so early that she hadn't had a chance to eat breakfast, and had gone so far with an empty and growling stomach.<p>

Renly was waiting for her at the gates of the keep, his hands on his hips as he watched her approach. "Morning, father," Alana greeted with a smile, dismounting her horse and handing the leather reins to a servant waiting beside her. "Shouldn't you be inside having breakfast?"

"Am I not allowed to greet my daughter?" Renly asked, smiling and putting his arm around her shoulders. "How was working at the sept today?"

Alana shrugged. "It was fine. The High Septon was infuriating as always."

"I always thought he was far too air-headed for his own good. Being chosen to be the High Septon didn't help one bit." The two of them entered the Great Hall, and Alana waved over a servant to bring her usual breakfast.

"What have you been doing today?" she asked conversationally as she plopped down at an empty seat.

Renly sat beside her and sighed. "Most of my morning was spent being lectured by Robert on the importance of an heir to Storm's End." He made a face. "That reminds me, Robert desperately needs a new Hand. He's been taking the death of Lord Arryn very hard. We're leaving for Winterfell tomorrow."

"So soon?"

Renly nodded. "Have you decided whether or not you are going?"

Alana had had plenty of time to decide, but instead of weighing her options she had forgotten about it entirely, choosing to push it to the back of her mind. "I guess I'll go," she decided. "It will be awfully lonely in King's Landing without uncle Robert and his court."

Renly smiled and squeezed her shoulder. "That's wonderful. I'm sure you'll have a wonderful time there."

"Maybe," Alana responded doubtfully. "Maybe." A sudden realization came over her, filling her body with dread. "I have to go," she announced, standing up so fast her chair was sent skidding across the scuffed wooden floor, teetering and threatening to tip over. "I need to pick up the candlesticks from the blacksmith." After she had moved the podium and rotated all of the pews, she had been so eager to leave that she had completely forgotten the High Septon's request that she retrieve the order from Tobho Mott's shop. It was a name she had heard before, recommended to others as the best smith in King's Landing, possibly in all of Westeros.

Renly sighed. "I suppose this is what I get for thinking I might have a chance to have a conversation with you." He waved his hands, shooing her towards the door. "Go. The sooner you leave the sooner you can come back. I'll have them keep your breakfast warm."

Alana nodded and sprinted out the door, scarcely avoiding a brown haired servant carrying a tray of food that smelled so good it made her want to forget all about the High Septon and the candlesticks, her feet slapping the floor as she raced towards the stables. If she hurried, she could be there and back in less than an hour, she decided. Provided there was no distractions, that is.

* * *

><p>"<em>How was the sermon today?" Renly asked, entering Alana's room. She was lying on her stomach on her bed, her face buried in another one of her books. She was still too young to go all the way from the Red Keep to the Great Sept of Baelor on her own, so he had had Ser Richard accompany her. Under his orders, however, the man was not to help Alana in any of her duties, only to follow her around and make sure she stays safe. If she was serious about helping out at the Sept, he would allow her to skip spending time with the other ladies of King's Landing, sewing and gods know what else up in the Maidenvault.<em>

"_Not good," she responded plainly, not even looking up from her book. "The High Septon was an ass." Renly sat on the bed next to her and leaned over, reading the title, The white lettering a stark contrast against the black of the cover._

"_Lineages of the Noble Houses of Westeros?" He read, straightening and looking at her. At last, she rolled over to look up at him, tucking the book next to her, her finger still between the pages to save her spot. "What could possibly be so interesting about the nobility. All they do is marry someone they don't love, spend the rest of their life avoiding them, and then die."_

"_I think it's important I understand my heritage," Alana explained haughtily, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "I am a Baratheon, at least by blood, and I think I should know about my ancestors."_

"_May I?" Renly asked, taking the book from her after she nodded. He flipped open to the page she had saved and began to read, his eyes skimming the faded black ink. "Physical characteristics of house Baratheon," he read. "Lord Boremund. Black of hair, blue of eye." The further down on the page he went, the darker and newer the ink was. He skimmed down a few lines. "Ser Lyonel Baratheon. Black of hair, blue of eye." He looked up from the book. "What am I supposed to learn from reading this?"_

_Alana sighed and took the book from his hands. "Every other member of house Baratheon has had black hair and blue eyes. That includes you, uncle Robert, and uncle Stannis. I'm the only one with brown eyes."_

"_They're your mother's eyes," he said slowly, careful not to tell a blatant lie to his daughter._

"_And they're the only thing I have of her. There are no paintings, no letters, nothing. You never talk about her. And I know she's not dead," she added as soon as Renly opened his mouth. _

"_Your mother loved you very much," Renly began, pushing Alana's hair out of her face. "She was the daughter of a Myrish Magister."_

"_I'm Myrish?" Alana asked, her eyes wide in surprise, raising her arm and looking at it, as though she might see some sort of identifying mark that would confirm what Renly was saying. "I thought Myrmen had darker skin than Westerosi."_

"_Sometimes," Renly admitted. "Your grandmother, on her side, was also Westerosi, so her skin was much lighter than any Myrman's. She had the dark eyes of her grandfather, and you have her eyes."_

_Alana was transfixed, sitting upright now with the book forgotten on the floor. Renly _never_ spoke of her mother. "What was her name?"_

_Renly was struck with a sudden pang of guilt that Alana never even knew her mother's name. "It was Serala. Serala Faye."_

"_Have you sent her any ravens? Have you had any contact with her at all?" She clearly had a thousand questions for him, she was dying to ask them all._

"_I haven't spoken to her since she gave me you." He tried to ruffle her hair but she jerked her head away, not willing to be distracted. "But she first came to King's Landing to personally deliver a shipment of her father's best crossbows. She delivered them to the king, and uncle Robert had just come into power. If anyone knew how to contact her, it would be him."_

"_Thank you, father." She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, before standing up and running out of the room, presumably to the throne room. _Father._ That was a name Renly didn't deserve. He sighed and rose from the bed. He had come into the room, hoping to be cheered up by his daughter, but instead found himself even more worn out._

* * *

><p>Alana's knuckles rapped quickly against the ebony and weirwood doors of the blacksmith's shop, flanked on either side by a stone griffin and unicorn, wearing red suits of armor. The shop itself stood at the top of the street of steel, towering above the rest of the shops around it, casting a shadow over the cobblestone road.<p>

The door creaked open, and a man with a thick beard gestured for Alana to enter, stepping aside. He was just shorter than Alana, but his arms were massive, thick and covered in a layer of hair. In fact, his entire chest was covered with dark hair as well, visible through the low neck of the brown shirt he wore under his leather apron. "How can I help you?" He asked once she was inside, watching her as she glanced at the room around her. The windows high up on the white stone walls lit the room, casting light on the chestnut brown floorboards. Behind an ebony counter stood his wares, swords sharp enough to break through a block of iron, and steel plate metal thick enough to stop anything. She could hear a rhythmic and muffled _clank_ of metal on metal through the walls.

"I'm here to pick up the candlesticks. The High Septon sent me," Alana responded, her voice disinterested, still distracted by the weapons.

The blacksmith, who Alana could only assume was Tobho Mott, nodded. "It's in the back. I'll lead you there." He approached the door to the forge, allowing Alana to enter first. "They were a waste of time if you ask me," he announced as they walked. "I make weapons, not trinkets. I tried explaining that to your 'High Septon,' but he wouldn't listen."

Alana let a wry smile cross her face as she heard this. "That does sound just like him. He wants nothing but the best for the Faith, no matter the cost."

"Damn fool," Tobho muttered under his breath. As they entered the forge, Alana was struck by a wave of heat from the furnace, as a black haired boy worked the bellows. "Gendry," Tobho called out, prompting the boy to stop what he was doing and turn around. "Where are the candlesticks?"

As soon as Alana saw the face of the boy named Gendry, her heart began to hammer in her chest. He looked exactly like Renly, with his icy blue eyes and dark black hair. _He's my brother_, Alana realized as she ran her eyes over his features again and again. There was simply no other explanation.

"I moved them to the storage room," he answered, his response simple and efficient. He ran a hand across his sweaty forehead, to push his wet black hair out of his eyes. "They were taking up too much space in here." He disappeared into a back room, leaving Alana alone with Tobho in the forge.

"You said his name was Gendry?" Alana inquired, acting nonchalant, as though she was trying to make simple conversation.

Tobho nodded, slow and thoughtful. "Gendry Waters is his full name." Alana noted that he was a bastard, like herself, and resolved to ask her father as soon as she arrived back at the Red Keep. "He never knew his father, and his mother died when he was very young." The corners of his mouth twitched upwards. "Just about every woman that comes in here asks about him. Even I have to admit he's quite the looker." Before Alana could respond, Gendry stepped out of the storage room, carrying a large wooden chest, the top open to reveal intricate golden candlesticks shining in the light of the furnace. "If you count them, you'll see that there are seven, just as agreed upon," Tobho added as Alana took the chest from Gendry, still unable to keep her eyes off his hair. The same color as her and her father's hair.

The chest was heavy, but not unmanageable. She could rest it on her lap as she rode the horse back to the Sept of Baelor. "Thank you," she smiled at Gendry. "And thank you, Ser," she added to Tobho as an afterthought.

"I never got your name," Tobho realized, just as Alana was turning to leave.

"I am Lady Alana," she answered, choosing to avoid using her surname Storm. If Tobho knew that both she and Gendry were bastards, and that they both looked remarkably similar, it wouldn't take much to draw a connection between the two of them.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Lady Alana," Tobho responded, bowing before her. Gendry remained standing, until Tobho elbowed him in the ribs, at which point he bent over, his back stiff and his eyebrows twisted into a frown.

"It's a pleasure to meet you as well. If you don't mind, I ought to bring these back to the Sept," she gestured with her chin to the chest in her hands. "I will be sure to tell the High Septon how polite the famed Tobho Mott was."

"Thank you, my lady," he bowed once more. "I'll show you out."

It wasn't until Alana was far from the blacksmith's shop, as her horse carried her to the curved ceiling of the Sept of Baelor visible even from her saddle, that she realized perhaps her father wouldn't even know if he had another bastard child. He raised Alana like a trueborn child, defending her whenever the taunts of the legitimate children of the servants turned cruel, even spending time with her every day, despite his long hours working as the master of laws. If he knew of the existence of Gendry, why wouldn't he treat his bastard son the same way? More importantly, if he had one bastard he knew nothing about, what's to say there wouldn't be more? _There's only one person who would know the truth and and be willing to tell me_, Alana realized. Thankfully, she knew exactly where he was.

* * *

><p>Littlefinger was talking to Cersei by the time Alana arrived at the throne room of the Red Keep, his voice soft enough to not be heard while she approached, though it seemed controversial by nature, his lips curled up in a smile, as though he were sharing a secret. "May I speak to you alone?" Alana asked when she reached him.<p>

His laughter died down as he noticed her presence, as well as the impatient tapping of her foot on the stone floor. "I don't believe I have the authority to dismiss the queen," he decided, glancing sideways at her.

"You do not," Cersei agreed. "But I will leave all the same." She smiled at Littlefinger (completely ignoring Alana) before making her way towards Ser Jaime, who was standing guard near the throne, his golden hair shining in the patch of sunlight he stood in.

"What do you have on your mind, my lady?" Littlefinger asked. Alana had spoken with him twice before, once on her sixteenth name day a year or so ago and once when she accidentally wandered into a small council meeting when she was much younger and he had offered to walk her back to her room. He had the remarkable ability to make her skin crawl regardless of their conversation topic. However, he also had a talent for secrets, his skills matched matched only by Lord Varys himself. If there was anyone who knew the truth of Gendry's parentage, it was one of those two.

"The High Septon sent me to pick up some candlesticks from Tobho Mott's blacksmith shop." She paused for a moment, gauging his reaction. He raised an eyebrow, as if to say _go on_, but his expression remained unchanged. "There I met a young boy named Gendry."

At the name, a sly smile spread across Littlefinger's face. "Ah, Gendry. I've spoken to the lad once or twice. He has the makings to be a great blacksmith some day. Pray tell, what is it about Gendry that caught the attention of Lady Alana Storm?"

Alana glanced around her, checking to make sure there was nobody eavesdropping on their conversation. "I think he's my brother," she finally whispered, satisfied that Littlefinger was the only one who could hear.

Littlefinger nodded slowly, processing the information. "He does resemble your father quite a bit. However, I think I have a better explanation." He paused for a moment, his eyes locked on Alana's face, before continuing, "I believe he's your cousin. The son of our great King Robert. Of course, there's no way to tell; his mother is long since dead, so she can't confirm that his father is the king. However, given remarkable resemblance to the king's family and given the king's previous… infidelity, one has to wonder."

"Indeed." Alana's head was reeling. She had known her uncle was not a man known for his monogamy - in fact, he was known for the opposite, of bedding anything that moved - but she never truly thought about the idea that she might have illegitimate cousins. It made sense of course, in hindsight. "There's no way to know for sure." A thought occurred to her, and she couldn't help but voice it, "My uncle has been known to have quite a few dalliances. How many bastards does he have?"

Littlefinger paused for a moment to think, his brow furrowing. "I know of four, but Varys claims he knows of nine. Truth be told, anyone with black hair could be one of Robert's bastards." He hesitated, before continuing, "I would advise you to keep this knowledge to yourself." He lowered his voice, his eyes glancing from side to side, mimicking Alana's motions a few moments earlier. "There are some who say that one Baratheon bastard living in the Red Keep is enough, and even that your father was wrong to keep you here, in court. To spread word of another could be… dangerous."

Alana nodded, a smile tugging at her lips despite herself. "I can't imagine Cersei would take well to having one of Robert's bastards in court." The queen was known for her hatred of bastards - in fact, she spent an enormous amount of time taunting and teasing Alana specifically - and the the idea that Robert would bring one of his illegitimate children to court must be enough to have her tear out her golden hair. Then again, that would make her all the more brutal in her taunting and teasing, to the hypothetical bastard as well as Alana. Alana found herself thanking the gods that Robert didn't care for his bastards as much as Renly did, and thanking the gods that he wouldn't dare bring them to court.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I'd greatly appreciate any feedback on how this chapter was. Thank you again for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks to MinnieJvV for motivating me to get this chapter out so quickly! The next chapter should be a little shorter, and I'll probably have that out within a week. Also, thank you to everyone who followed, favorited, and reviewed. It's nice to know how many people enjoyed reading this. I hope this one lives up to the first chapter! Enjoy!**

Chapter 2

The carnal grunts and groans coming from the room beneath hers permeated through the thick wooden walls of the inn they stayed at, the moans of whatever whore Robert had gotten his hands on so loud Alana could hear it even with her head buried under her pillow and her fingers jammed into her ears. It was never like this back in King's Landing; her uncle's room was on the other side of the keep and the only noise Alana would be able to hear would be the distant crashing of the waves upon the beach, so faint that it was only perceptible on hot summer nights, when she would prop the window open and breath in the gentle breeze. No matter how quiet it was in King's Landing, it was always quieter in Storm's End, with a fraction of the court that Robert had. Renly's position as master of laws demanded that he spend a majority of his time in King's Landing, though he was given a month or two each year to return to his home, bringing his daughter with him. Alana missed it, missed the massive stone curtain walls that were so wide three horsemen could ride side by side side plenty of room. She missed the cliffs and the waves that thundered against them, so violently that Alana had no question as to why the sea was called Shipbreaker bay, no question as to why her grandparents were killed just off shore when their boat sank.

Another loud groan, followed by a giggle pulled Alana out of her musings, pulling her from the safety of her mind back to reality. She had blushed when Robert and whoever else he had in his room began, starting with the soft whispers and chuckling, but now her face had long since returned to its original color, and her patience was wearing thin. She rose from her bed, a shiver running through her body at the feeling of the night air through her thin nightdress, cold despite the embers that occasionally popped in the hearth.

She pulled on a cloak, made of a heavy cotton with bear fur around the collar, a gift for her sixteenth nameday from Robert (he claimed he had killed it himself, and later they had all feasted on the meat of the beast, gamey and spiced by the finest Dornish cooks - men Robert had sent for solely for her nameday - so spicy that she gasped and her mouth burned until she chased it down with a flagon of ale) and wrapped it around herself, stepping outside of her room.

The hallway was lit dimly, by a few candles flickering on their posts along the wall, their soft glow illuminating the hall in a weak light. Her footsteps padded on the dark carpet as she made her way to the staircase. She tried her best to walk softly down the stairs, but they were old and made of wood, and it seemed that every step she took made the floor groan and creak. The squeaks of Robert's bedframe didn't stop, however, and soon she was out in the night air, finally free of the wretched sound, free to listen to the chirping of the crickets and the howling of the wolves and the whistle of the wind between the trees.

* * *

><p>"You're getting slow," Robb teased his brother as he struck another hit with his blunted practice sword, not enough to break skin but hard enough to send Jon howling in pain and limping away. Jon scowled and rubbed the spot on his thigh where he was hit, limping back towards the center of the sparring arena, where Robb stood waiting for him. The two had been fighting since noontime, trying to prepare for the royal visit. There was certainly going to be a tourney while the King was there, and Robb wanted to bring as much honor to his family as he could.<p>

"You swing too hard," Jon muttered, swatting away one of Robb's thrusts and swinging his sword at his brother's head. "You're going to make me break something, and then you'll feel like an arse."

Robb laughed, ducking underneath Jon's swing. "I swing too hard _because _you move too slowly. With live steel, you'd already be dead."

They fought in silence for a few moments, taking turns attacking and defending. Their swords collided against each other with a loud _clang_, and Robb could feel the impact vibrate all the way up his arm, like the bone was a string on a harp that had just been plucked. He nearly dropped the sword then, but silently thanked the old gods when he had the strength to hold on long enough to block Jon's thrust.

He was finished, and Jon could see it. That hit had made his arm go numb, and he could barely hold his sword. His brother prepared to whack him with the sword, a blow that would without a doubt hurt, and make up for all the hits Robb had scored on him throughout their sparring session.

"Boys, it's getting dark," called their father, from the balcony behind him, overlooking the sparring arena. "You best come inside." For a pair of heartbeats, it looked as though Jon was going to ignore their father and deliver unto Robb the beating of a lifetime, but finally, _mercifully_, Jon let his arm fall and nodded, his expression bitter, his payback so close he could nearly taste it. Robb thanked the gods a for sparing him Jon's punishment.

"This isn't over," Jon hissed at him, wiping the back of his hand across his sweat-soaked brow, his ebony curls plastered against his forehead. "Next time we spar, you are so going to regret it."

Robb laughed, finally allowing his sword arm to drop, until the tip of the sword was planted in the sandy arena at his feet. "Next time we spar, father won't be around to save you."

Before Jon could protest that their father had spared Robb, not the other way around, Ned spoke again, "Jon, wash your face for dinner. Robb, I'd like to have a word with you beforehand. Meet me in my solar."

The two brothers split up after they entered the keep, and headed to their respective rooms, Robb's on the east wing of the keep and Jon's in the west (despite the two's closeness, Lady Catelyn had outright refused to have the bastard anywhere remotely close where her children slept, so Ned had had to put Jon's room on the other side of the keep). While he walked, all Robb could think about was what his father wanted to talk to him about.

His mind flashed through all the things he had done wrong, real or imagined. In truth, there were hundreds of things his father could be cross with him about, ranging from giving Arya pointers on her sword stance when he came across her practicing late at night, all the way to passing Bran a trencher of ale under the table during dinner one night.

He entered the solar to find his father sitting at the desk, sealing a letter with melted wax and the Stark sigil. "Sit down, please," he said without looking up, gesturing to the armchair in front of his desk. That was how Ned often was, forceful but not cold, expecting obedience but not without reason.

Robb sat before him, suddenly mindful of how sweaty he was from sparring. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

Ned continued writing for a few more moments, before setting down his quill and looking up at him, his expression serious. "Jory told me he saw you and Theon in the whorehouse in Wintertown."

Robb let his head fall back, a groan escaping his lips. Of all the things Ned had to confront him about, it had to be this one. "That was because Theon needed someone to vouch for him. Apparently last time he was there, he started a fire-"

Ned held up his hand. "Whether or not you actually laid with a whore - which, make no mistake, I _don't _want to know the truth of it - I wanted to talk to you about it. This is long overdue, anyway." He waited for a moment, making sure Robb didn't have any complaints, before continuing, "Your mother and I love you, and we'd put up with many things, but the last thing Winterfell needs is another Stark bastard." He sighed, and Robb realized that putting on his stern exterior exhausted him, drained him of what little energy he had left after running the North.

"I promise, father, I will father no bastards. You have my word."

"Thank you, Robb." He smiled weakly. "I'm very proud of you."

A thought occurred to him. "Why didn't you call Jon in here as well? He's helped Theon back from the brothel more times than I can count. The only reason I helped Theon back to the castle was because Jon was busy."

Ned frowned in thought, drumming his finger against his bottom lip, as if deciding how to respond. "I trust that your brother understands better than anyone the consequences of fathering a bastard. Besides, from what he's told me, it's not going to matter in a few moons anyway."

Now it was Robb's turn to frown, this time in confusion. "What do you mean?"

Ned shook his head. "He wants to keep it a secret until he's certain. If you truly want to know, ask him yourself." He stood up. "It's about time to eat. Let's go." The two left the room together, though Ned went to the Great Hall, while Robb headed to his room, to wash the sweat and dirt off his face before eating. He pushed what father had said to the back of his mind. No matter how much he wanted to to ask Jon what father was talking about when he saw him at dinner, Robb knew that if he wanted to talk about it, he would.

* * *

><p>The proximity of the brothel to the inn certainly explained how Robert had paid for a whore so quickly. Alana had been walking for no more than five minutes before she had come across the whorehouse, and the irony was not lost on her, that she had left the inn to escape the sounds of passion and instead found herself listening to the overly-dramatic moans and keens of the whores, audible even from outside the establishment.<p>

The old wooden sign hanging out over the road swung back and forth in the soft breeze, painted like a peach with a bite taken out of it. All the other buildings in the town were cloaked in darkness, the blinds of every window drawn and the candles put out, save for the brothel. The entire building was lit up, it's windows glowing even through the thin curtains, the sounds of conversation and passion intermingling with one another.

As Alana passed the door, her footsteps meeting the cobblestone with a rhythmic _rat tat tat_, the wooden door swung open, a man tumbling backwards and falling into the gutter. "And stay out!" called a graying brown haired woman, who possessed, Alana couldn't help noticing, the largest pair of breasts she had ever seen, laced tightly in a brown leather bodice on top of a white dress.

She was much older than Alana would have expected, yet still younger than Cersei was, her brown hair tipped streaked with grey, yet still remaining dark, not unlike her own hair. The woman turned her gaze to Alana, and she realized she had been staring at the woman. "If you're here for my girls, come on in, don't be shy." She stepped aside to make room in the doorway, keeping her arm against the door, holding it open for her. Behind her, Alana could see a brightly lit room, with girls walking around, wearing nothing but thin chemises, flaunting their hips as they walked, smiling as they chose their next client.

"Oh, no thank you," Alana responded, her face heating up, all the way from her cheeks to the tips of her ears. "I'm just passing by."

The woman quirked her lips and raised her eyebrows, doubt in her eyes, as if to say _Oh really?_ "Are you sure? Forget any men you've had, _my _girls know how to give you pleasure."

Now Alana was certain she was going to burn up from embarrassment, and she was positive her face was now a bright red, her blush visible even in the darkness of the street. Behind her, the man thrown out of the brothel began to struggle to his feet, stumbling a few shaky steps back to the establishment before his knees gave out and he sprawled out in front of the cobblestone, groaning to himself. Even from where she stood, she could smell the ale on his breath, enough to make her wrinkle her nose and take a step away from him. "I'm not here for your girls," she explained. "I was just passing by to clear my head."

The woman nodded, her lips twitching upwards in a bitter smile. "I understand." She took a step forward, her fingers closing around a lock of Alana's coal-black hair, rolling it around and inspecting it. "You have such pretty hair." She sighed and opened her hand, letting the hair fall back to Alana's shoulders. "Why don't you come inside, so we can talk?" Seeing Alana's hesitation, she grinned, and added, "I have plenty of ale."

On one hand, Renly would be seriously disappointed in her if he caught her in the brothel, furious even. He would probably send her to live off in the mountains, or to work for the Silent Sisters. On the other hand, a tankard of ale sounded divine, even if she did have to drink it in the bottom floor of a whorehouse. "Maybe for one quick drink," she decided.

The woman smiled and led her inside, away from the man who had once again risen to his feet, taking a few unsteady steps away before bending at the waist and heaving up his dinner. Alana would have been lying if she said she wasn't the least bit excited. Visiting a whorehouse was the absolute opposite of what a lady ought to do, and she didn't have the slightest idea of what she was going to find inside.

The room was like any other, not quite as grand or large as the Great Hall of King's Landing, yet similar to the inn. There were men everywhere, sitting at tables waiting impatiently to be serviced, being led in and out of rooms by giggling girls wearing too-short dresses. There were a few girls loitering around, likely whores, laughing with one another and even sneaking sips of ale from the cask when no one was looking, yet they were few and far between compared to the number of men.

The woman sat down at an open table, and waved Alana to sit down next to her, revealing a thin gold band around her ring finger. "My name is Tansy. All my girls call me Madam Tansy, but I think just Tansy will do for you. I run this place." A girl no older than Alana walked over carrying two tankards of frothing ale, sloshing with every step she took. The girl set them down and flashed Alana a brief smile before walking away, leaving her to sort out if it was a look of pity or not.

"My name is Alana," she responded, her gaze dropping to the tankard of liquor before returning back to Tansy. She reached over and took a sip, her mouth filling with the bitter taste. "Alana Storm."

Tansy's eyes widened in understanding. "So you're a bastard?" She asked, leaning in, her voice dropping. "I've had a few bastards myself. The youngest is just a few years younger than you are. They're all gone now, off to earn their fortune somewhere other than their mother's brothel." She smiled bitterly, her eyes unfocused and distant. "All but one of my children don't even know who their father is." She shook her head and took another drink from her tankard, longer this time, and Alana sat silently, listening to Tansy swallow loudly, perceptibly even over the din of the room. When she was done, she set the tankard down on the table with a loud _clank_, wiping the thin line of foam that had collected against her top lip. "Do me a favor, Alana." Without waiting for her to respond, she continued, "Tell your mother you love her, even if you don't."

"I don't know who my mother is," Alana all but whispered, dropping her gaze to the ale. "Well, I know who she is. I've never met her."

* * *

><p>"<em>Do you have a letter for me?" Alana asked the ship captain, her fingers crossed and hidden behind her back, a sweet smile plastered on her face to mask the uncertainty and nerves she hid. She had given him a letter, many months ago, asking him to deliver it to her mother when he arrived in Myr to pick up his shipment of Myrish lace. She had spent every night since then checking the dock, searching for the only ship with dark wood and blood red sails ("to honor the Red God," he explained to her when she asked, just moments before she handed him her letter).<em>

_He bowed his head and kicked at the docks, as though he were trying to decide how to respond. "I gave the letter to her," he began, chewing at his bottom lip. He clearly had been speaking the Common tongue for a long time, enough to be fluent in it, his words clear despite his thick Myrish accent. "But as soon as I said who it was from she threatened to have me arrested, and had her guards escort me out of the mansion." Seeing Alana's stricken face, he reached out a comforting hand to her shoulder. "I'm sorry. Truly."_

"_It's not your fault," Alana muttered, her eyes stinging with unspilled tears._

"_If it would make you feel any better, I can tell you she was very pretty." He squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. "I'm no poet, but my father was always furious with me for wasting my time sketching on whatever scrap of paper I could find. If it would make you feel any better, I might be able to draw what she looked like." He sounded uncertain, but Alana could tell he meant the best. "It would be no masterpiece, but perhaps you could bring it to one of the court painters-"_

"_No," she interrupted before realizing it made her sound ungrateful. "No thank you." She had poured her heart into that letter, discussing anything that came to mind. In truth, the letter was several pages long, long enough to be considered three or four separate letters. Likely, her mother hadn't even read it, merely torn it to shreds the moment the captain was out the door. "I'd get sad every time I looked at it."_

* * *

><p>She was right, of course. Every time she looked at her the painting of her mother, hidden away in the small golden locket she often kept tucked under her dress, she felt a wave of both sadness and longing in equal parts ("She looks just like you," the court painter had observed as he consulted the ship captain's drawing - the one she had run to his ship the day before he left to Myr to beg him to draw - and set up his easel, while Alana wished she knew how to paint, so she could paint it herself and nobody would ever know just how badly Alana wanted to see her mother's face, hear her mother's words, even if they were spoken through ink and parchment rather than through the wind). Alana touched the locket, just to be sure it was still there, hanging around her neck.<p>

"I'm sorry," Tansy apologized before hiccuping, bringing a hand to cover her mouth. "My friends used to say it would only take two or three tankards of ale before I'm retching in the alleyway."

Alana smiled, though it was without humor. "There's nothing to be sorry for. Not everyone has as high a tolerance to spirits as…" Her voice trailed away, unsure whether or not she should refer to herself as a Baratheon. All illegitimacy aside, it may be foolish to let the entire brothel know she was related to the king. The kind of man who spends his nights in a brothel is not the kind of man you would trust not to ransom you to your uncle. "As my family," she finished. Eager to change the subject, she added, "It took five tankards of ale on my sixteenth nameday before I was as drunk as my uncle usually is." She dropped her gaze to her tankard, swishing the liquid around, wondering if perhaps she said too much, if what she said was enough to reveal her uncle was none other than Robert Baratheon.

When she looked back up, Tansy stared at her, intently, as though she were expecting Alana to be someone else. "You remind me of my daughter," she mused. "My youngest. Her name is Mina. She used to get so angry at me, for bringing her into this world as a bastard rather than a trueborn girl. She left to live with her father not long ago." Tansy stared off into the distance, sighing to herself. "Perhaps it was for the best. No girl deserves to grow up in a whorehouse."

"Better to be raised in a whorehouse than to be raised without a mother," Alana decided, raising the tankard of ale one last time to her lips, draining it until only the foam was left at the bottom. She had drank since her sixteenth name day, a tankard of ale here and a flask of mead there, but never to excess. She hadn't enjoyed the dizziness of nausea of the drink, and she certainly hadn't enjoyed the pounding headache she had the next morning, nor the fact that she had to draw her shades and shove her head under a pillow to prevent the light from making things worse. She hadn't been able to leave her room until the sun had already begun to sink in the sky, well after everyone had eaten lunch.

"You're a smart girl, Alana," Tansy observed, smiling at her. "Do you have time to stay for another round?"

Alana frowned in thought, glancing down at the now empty tankard in her hands. "I suppose I could stay for one more. What's the worst that could happen?" Tansy waved down one of her girls, gesturing to her empty tankard. The girl nodded and took their cups, bringing them to the cask of ale.

Alana knew she was in trouble the instant she heard his laugh. Robert had a booming laugh, the kind that always seems to be louder than everything else, able to be heard even from the other side of the room. She turned her head, and, sure enough, it was none other than her uncle, stumbling along and flanked by several kingsguard, his arm around a girl's shoulder, a girl that couldn't be older than Alana.

"Did you enjoy Cass, your grace?" Tansy called from behind her, nearly knocking her chair over in her haste to bow before the king.

Robert grinned and opened his mouth, turning to look at Tansy, when his eyes landed on Alana, turning in an instant from puzzlement to anger. Alana tried to swallow the thickness in her throat, turning back towards Tansy and quickly gulping down the fresh tankard of ale, not stopping until she felt her uncle's rough hand on her shoulder. "Come with me," he demanded. Alana didn't even have to turn her head to smell the wine and mead on his breath, didn't even have to turn around to see the look of disappointment on his face.

Without saying a word, Alana rose, walking towards the door with her head tilted, like a child who had been caught doing something naughty. "She's not a whore," Tansy protested, causing Alana's heart to clench. The woman had trusted her, and Alana had lied to her, pretended to be someone she wasn't. "She is simply here for the drinks."

"This _girl,_" Robert hissed out the word, as if to emphasize to anyone listening in the now-silent room that Alana was not a whore. "Is my niece. And she will be leaving now."

Every man in the whorehouse was watching her now, their eyes fixed on her every move as she made her way out. Already they were whispering to one another, always when the king and his men weren't looking. As soon as they were all gone, they'd practically shout to the world about how the king's niece, who usually spent all of her time in the sept, was found in a whorehouse. Alana looked over her shoulder to get one last look at Tansy, at her look of confusion, before Robert's wide body blocked her from sight as he followed her out of the brothel. _I'm sorry Tansy_, she thought to herself. This would somehow find a way to come back to haunt the poor woman. For all she knew, Robert would have her shut down the brothel as soon as he was sure Alana was back at the inn. As Alana made her way out the door, followed closely by her uncle, she promised the Seven that she'd find some way to make it up to her, if it was the last thing she did.

* * *

><p>"Out," Robert ordered his kingsguard, pointing towards the door out of Alana's room. The two knights, whose names Alana had never bothered to learn, silently left the room, their armor clinking with every step.<p>

As soon as they were out of the room, Alana turned to him, wringing her hands. "I wasn't doing anything shameful," she explained, glancing down at the floor, unwilling to make eye contact with her uncle. "I was just drinking, and you do that all the time."

"I also spend most of my days in brothels, but that doesn't mean you should." He sighed. "I'm not going to tell your father."

Alana was prepared for another shouting match with her uncle, one that couldn't possibly end well, likely ending with her father joining in. She had opened her mouth, but at his statement, she found herself unable to understand. What possible motive could he have to keeping her secret? "You won't?"

"Everyone makes mistakes. And I believe you when you say that all you were doing was drinking there." He sighed heavily, dropping his gaze to the floor. "Gods know I've spent far too much time in whorehouses across Westeros."

Alana had half a mind to leave now while her luck was good. He wasn't going to tell her father, and that was the best thing she could have asked for. On the other hand, she was terribly curious. "If you don't mind me asking, why? Why not tell my father? What do you gain from it?"

Robert smiled wryly. "Because I know people make mistakes. I've made thousands. And I know that your life is hard enough as a bastard. I've seen the way Cersei and her so-called friends whisper about you when you walk by. The last thing you need is for them to have a reason to talk about you." He set his arm on her shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly. "Nobody of importance knows you were there, save for the kingsguard, and they won't say anything unless I give them permission, which I will not. Next time, be more careful. I might not be the one to find you there."

Without hesitation, Alana pulled him into a hug, burying her face into his massive, heavy robes and sighing heavily with relief. "Thank you, uncle," she whispered. "My father would have killed me."

Robert laughed, a jolly, booming laugh. "Renly wouldn't have killed you. He may have been disappointed, but he wouldn't have killed you. Your Uncle Stannis, however, he might have killed you. You ought to thank the gods you aren't his daughter." He patted her on the head gently. "You ought to go to bed, Alana. We're departing early in the morning tomorrow, and you need as much rest as you can get."

Alana nodded and stepped back. "I will. Good night, uncle Robert."

Robert smiled, the two edges of his thick beard twitching upwards. "Good night, Alana. I'll see you tomorrow morning." With a small pat on her shoulder, he made his way out of the room, the floorboards creaking with every step, until the door shut behind him.

Alana sat down on the floor before the fire, now reduced to mere glowing embers, her heart racing. She let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Robert was right, when he said she was lucky she wasn't Stannis' daughter. While Renly may have sent her to live with the Silent Sisters if he caught her in the brothel, it was her uncle Stannis who truly would have shunned her. He already had enough disdain for her father, for daring to let his bastard daughter stay at the keep, eating where the king's trueborn children ate, sleeping mere rooms away from the king and queen. If she were to be caught in a brothel, he wouldn't have hesitated before telling the Seven Kingdoms how his niece was caught cavorting with whores, how for all they knew she had been working as a whore herself, that all her time spent at the Sept of Baelor was an elaborate lie so she could spend time secretly working at the Street of Silk.

She could remember the way he would frown at her sixteenth nameday, his scowl getting more and more pronounced as Alana got deeper into her cups. When the dancing began, and Alana managed to drag him out onto the dance floor, amidst the twirling nobles, the sound of a happy, warm song in the air, he had frowned the whole time. He had leaned in during an especially loud part of the song, and whispered, "You're just like Robert. A disgrace to the Baratheon name." He left afterwards, claiming exhaustion, and soon Alana found herself drinking more and more, eager to rid herself of the memory.

It hadn't worked, and she still could feel her throat constrict when she thought of her uncle's face when he stepped away, the look of satisfaction on his face as he realized how much his words had hurt.

Alana stay awake for a long time afterwards, staring at the embers of her fire, until the sun began to crest the horizon, and her room was lit, even with the candles blown out, with the faint light that filtered in through the window. At last her eyes grew too heavy and she lay her head on the wooden floor, finally allowing sleep to take her.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear what you guys think so far!<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey! Sorry I got this out later than I said I would. It's probably going to be a little while before I can post chapter 4. Thank you for all the feedback! It's wonderful motivation. Please tell me what you think of this chapter. Enjoy!**

Chapter 3

The Stark grey banners standing along the ramparts were tugged back and forth by the howling winds that had plagued the royal party since they had crossed the tributary of the White Knife just after Castle Cerwyn. The guides that had been waiting for them at Cerwyn reassured them that the winds and the clouds they brought would pass, and Alana had no reason to believe otherwise. She hoped they were right, as Robert would be insufferable for the remainder of his visit if it were to storm and ruin any chance of a hunt (or a small tourney of sorts, as Robert had suggested to anyone who would listen).

The East Gate was not the formidable, legendary wall of oak that existed in Storm's End (never before penetrated by a battering ram, and nearly as strong as the cliffs the castle stood upon), but Alana knew, despite never being in a battle before, that the walls would have no trouble keeping out an invader. The gates themselves were thick, with bolts of steel holding the crossbeams in place, she noted as she passed under the guardhouse. Three guards in plate armor stood on each side of the gates, holding massive shields just low enough to reveal a direwolf hammered into the chest plate. These were unlike any of the Lannister's men, with their shining armor and unblemished swords, Alana realized. These men, the soldiers with chips in their blades and rusted red mail, had seen battle, had fought in Robert's Rebellion and watched their comrades be cut down by the Targaryens. Choosing between the two of them, the pristine knights beneath the crimson lion banner and the worn, grim soldiers beneath the white direwolf, Alana knew that the Northerners were far more likely to keep out any intruder.

She was trailing just behind her father, on a horse. To avoid insulting the Starks with the presence of a bastard, she was to enter Winterfell after the Royal family, but before the servants and soldiers. She decided to ride through the gates with her head held high for all to see, that while she was a bastard she sure as the seven was not ashamed of it.

The wind pulled at her braid as she entered the courtyard, sending sharp pricks of pain into her scalp, and blowing the tunics of the nobility already in the courtyard, even threatening to knock Robert's jeweled crown off his head as he dismounted his horse.

Robert cursed and grabbed the crown at the last moment, just as it seemed as though it were about to fall. Alana bit her lip as she struggled not to laugh, a smile tugging at her lips and forcing her to look away before she angered her uncle.

Instead, she focused on the line of nobles that stood before them, to welcome the royal party to Winterfell. They had to be the Starks, she decided, taking in their fine clothing, leather doublets and thick woolen dresses, made for keeping the wearer warm yet made by skilled weavers nevertheless.

Had she been a princess, or even if she had been trueborn, Robert would have insisted that she memorize the names of the five Stark children, had her read over which parent they favored so she could tell them apart. However, she was a bastard, and all Robert told her of the Starks were the stories he told after he was deep in his cups, the stories she wasn't meant to hear, the ones intended for the ears of the fellow soldiers of the room. From what she had heard, Lord Eddard Stark was a man fiercely loyal to his friends and family, slow to anger but fierce as a wolf when provoked.

Robert now stood in front of him, his golden crown now righted, though his hair was an untidy mop underneath it. Both of the men stood silently, the tension between the two of them palpable to everyone in the courtyard. It had been a long time since the two had seen one another, nearly nine years if memory served, not since the two of them helped storm Pyke, to put down the Greyjoy rebellion.

"You've gotten fat," Robert announced, a wide grin spreading across his face. Eddard struggled to remain serious in front of his children, but soon he too was smiling despite himself. All at once, the tension was gone, and it seemed the courtyard could breathe a sigh of relief. "Nine years!" Robert continued, shaking his head. "Why haven't I seen you? Where the hell have you been?"

"Guarding the north for you, your grace," Lord Stark responded, bowing before the king. "Winterfell is yours." Soon the two old friends were laughing together, Robert pulling Eddard into a great bear hug.

Alana glanced over at her father, as he watched the king and his best friend embrace with a look of almost longing on his face. He turned his head to catch her staring. "Friendship like that is rare amongst nobles," he explained, keeping his voice just above a whisper. "Most nobles are snakes, willing to lie and pretend to be your friend just to climb the social ladder."

Alana looked back at her uncle, who was now being introduced to Lord Stark's children._ At least_ _I don't need to worry about being false friends,_ she decided, watching the eldest Stark son shake hands with the king. _There's nothing to gain from befriending a bastard._

"Who have we here?" The king asked, offering up his hand. "You must be Robb." Robb nodded and shook the kings hand, idly wondering why it was so sweaty. The king didn't seem to notice, and had already moved onto Sansa, complimenting her on how beautiful she looked, while Robb fought the urge to wipe his hand off on his tunic.

Robert was talking to Bran, urging the boy to show his muscles, when a shout silenced the soft, hushed voices that had begun to slowly increase in volume since the king had greeted Ned. Robb jerked his head to the gate, where he had heard the noise, and where a half dozen guards had already assembled, weapons drawn to fight off an attacker.

The attacker, it turned out, was the blonde haired, scowling queen. "What, in the name of the seven, do you think you are doing?" she hissed, her hands balled up in fists, and her foot stomping to punctuate her question. She was facing a girl with hair as dark as raven feathers, who was in the middle of dismounting her chestnut horse. When the girl opened her mouth to respond, the queen interrupted, "I'll tell you what you're doing. You are humiliating the Starks, Baratheons, _and Lannisters_ by daring to enter Winterfell with the highborn." Despite the fact that there was no enemy, merely an argument between nobles, the guards (_Lannister guards_, Robb realized, his eyes narrowing) kept their weapons held upwards, ready to strike, as if this girl, no older than Robb, was capable of posing a threat to the royal family.

The wind picked up again, pulling at Robb's tunic and sending an icy chill down his spine, but he supposed this was not the time to suggest that the two resume their argument inside, preferably by the heat of a crackling fire. "It's nothing, Cersei," a black haired man responded quickly. He greatly resembled the king, though he was younger, and clearly weighed far less. Robb assumed it was Lord Renly. "A small mistake. She will go back and wait to enter with the servants." He shot the black haired girl a meaningful look, and she rolled her eyes before mounting her horse once more.

"She humiliated us," the queen still insisted.

"No more than you have with your shouting," the king called back, the warmth in his eyes present only moments ago replaced by something dark and cold. "Be silent."

For a moment, it seemed as though she was going to say something else, her mouth open and her tongue moving to form the words. The spell was broken though, when the black haired girl leaned in and whispered something to her horse's ear, a few, short words easily caught by the wind. Whatever it was, it was enough to prompt Renly to laugh, a short, joyful sound, mixed with pride, before he quickly turned it into a clearly fake coughing fit. Cersei's eyes narrowed; first at Renly, then at the girl, a look of pure, seething hate in her eyes.

"Fine," Cersei declared, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "I want her out of my sight."

The girl turned the horse around without another comment and slowly made her way out from between the gates, scratching her horse behind the ears as she did so. _She has long hair_, Robb observed, staring at her braid. She glanced back, for a brief moment, back at Renly, and Robb noticed she had brown eyes, unlike her father. Unlike the blue eyes of House Baratheon.

Alana hadn't bothered to dismount her horse after Cersei had thrown a temper tantrum in front of all of Winterfell, shrieking about embarrassing the Lannisters. She used to spend a week on horseback on the journey to Storm's End with her father (his position in the small council as Master of Laws required him to spend most of his time in the capital, though he managed to find time each year to take her back to her birthplace, where she'd sleep in her childhood bed, like nothing had changed), and another week on the return journey. Those were long days, with the trees from the Kingswood shielding the sun from view, keeping her whole day shrouded in the dark. Her thighs chafed and grew sore, her back ached, but still she hadn't complained, unwilling to let the party rest for even a moment longer, for every moment she spent making camp in the mud was another moment she wouldn't get to spend exploring the extensive library (not as large as the one in King's Landing, the books always seemed to find a way to get damp, even indoors, but the library in King's Landing didn't have any interesting stories hidden away), or pleading with her father to teach her to sail (he was always hesitant to go out onto Shipbreaker bay, especially since her grandparents had died out there, but she managed to convince him once, and for a full day she was the captain of _Elenei's Grace_, and she relished every wave that threatened to knock her over, and every sting of sea salt in her eyes).

She prided herself on two things: her determination (_stubbornness_, as her father was wont to call it when she would refuse his help in carrying a particularly large and heavy stack of books up to her room) and her ability to sit a saddle for days at a time if necessary, and it looked like she would be able to use both.

She was so caught up in her anger towards that blonde _she-demon_ that she didn't notice her father approached until his hand was on her shoulder. "She's gone," was all he said, his voice soft, like he was attempting to calm an enraged animal.

She smiled weakly, resting her hand on his for a second before she kicked her horse onward, entering Winterfell for a second time. "For how long?"

"Robert demanded he visit the crypt almost immediately after you left, and the crowd dispersed pretty soon after that. I'd say she's on the other side of the castle by now," Renly concluded, pulling back on the reins to slow the horse to a stop, before dismounting and handing them to a servant.

Alana followed suit. "Just in case, I'd like to be in whatever room they have prepared for me as quickly as possible." She leaned as far backwards as she could while still standing, letting the bones pop, allowing her mouth to open and release a soft moan as she felt relief wash over her body. When she straightened, a man stood before her, no older than she. He stood with his hands behind his back, watching as she and her father approached, his expression unreadable.

Alana expected him to speak, but it was her father who began, "Alana, this is Robb Stark, the heir to Winterfell. He's going to show you to your room." Her own room? This was certainly a first. She was used to sleeping in moldy old inns on the outskirts of castles, on beds as hard as rocks, with only a scratchy blanket and a pillow smelling of mildew for comfort. How in the name of the seven had Renly managed to convince the Starks to find a spare room for her, especially considering that there was only a limited number of bedrooms, so few that even her father was forced to sleep in the tavern in Wintertown. As if to answer her questioning look, Renly continued, "Robert decided to sleep outside the castle. He said it was to try to make up for his wife's behavior. " He snorted. "If Robert truly wanted to make up for the queen's fit, he ought to offer you a castle and a lordship."

Alana chuckled, more to indulge her father than anything else. He always got like this whenever someone so much as commented on her bastardry, once going so far as to throw the captain of the guard at Storm's End in the dungeons for a month, after the man, knocking over the pile of empty tankards he had before him, announced that the storm they were currently experiencing was a curse by the gods for allowing a bastard under their roof, highborn or not.

Instead of encouraging her father's rants (which often amounted to nothing but his reassuring that Alana deserved better), she decided to change the subject, and turned her attention to Robb. "Nice to meet you… Lord Stark." She added the _lord_ as an afterthought, knowing how sensitive young heirs could be about their titles."My name is Alana."

"Please, just call me Robb." His response came quick and easy, lacking all the stiff formalities that most of her conversations with nobles contained. "What do I call you, Lady…"

"Storm," she responded after a moment's hesitation. It was inevitable that he would be curious towards her house; she entered the castle just moments after the king, so logic dictates that she would be of an important house. "Alana Storm."

Understanding flashed through the boy's eyes, but Alana was surprised to see there was no trace of judgement in them. They were a deep blue, darker than hers, closer to the color of the ocean. "So you are from the Stormlands, then?"

Alana nodded, the movement slow and deliberate, as though she were worried this was some kind of trap. "Yes."

The two began to walk into the keep, out of the howling wind that could chill her even through her thick cloak. "I saw what happened with Cersei," he admitted after a few moments of silence, after they were out of the cold.

Alana shrugged, as though the whole event hadn't bothered her. "The queen does what she wants, I suppose." In truth, she wasn't angry at the queen. She hadn't expected anything better from the bitter woman. Instead of anger, her unhappiness had taken the form of a flush across her face as every eye in the courtyard had looked at her, one foot still in the stirrups as she dismounted.

The two made their way up a set of wooden stairs, the floorboards solid as the stone walls around them, with not a hint of creaking or moaning as she stepped. "This is your room," he stated, stopping in front of a dark wooden door. "This is the guest hallway. You can get to my room by taking a right at the end of the corridor. It's the last one before the staircase." He paused for a moment, as if choosing what he was going to say next. "I have a question for you, if you don't mind."

Alana briefly debated saying no and entering her room. Nine times out of ten, when someone had a question alone with her, it involved her legitimacy. And the one time when it wasn't was usually a proposition for sex. But Robb hadn't commented on her bastardry when he found out she was baseborn. "I don't," she finally decided, taking a risk.

"What was it you said to the queen?" He asked. Seeing her confusion, he continued, "When Robert told her to be silent, she looked fit to burst, until you said something. What was it?"

"Oh." Alana rubbed the back of her neck, embarrassed to continue. "I said… well… oh, she'll hang me if she finds out I said it."

"She won't. On my honor as a Stark, I will never tell a soul what you said."

"I said 'come on Cersei, let's go.'" She could feel her lips spreading into a wide smile. "It won't make a lot of sense until you know that I named my horse _Cersei_. She - the queen, not the horse - always gets furious when I bring it up."

Robb chuckled, eventually allowing himself a grin. "And she didn't have you change the name?"  
>"She tried, but Robert said she ought to be honored that people are finally naming things after her." She began to take notice of the fact that Robb was staring into her eyes. "What is it?" She demanded, suddenly defensive.<p>

"You are by far the most interesting person I have ever met." He chuckled again, quieter this time, if only to break the uncomfortable silence that had settled between them. "Will I see you at the feast tonight?"

Alana nodded, her mind drifting away towards how she was going to slip into the Great Hall without Cersei noticing. "I'll see you there. If you'll excuse me, I need to clean myself. It has been a long day of travelling, and there are few baths in the taverns scattered across the North."

Robb nodded, still smiling. "I will see you tonight." He turned around and began walking towards the end of the corridor - to his room, if memory served - his footsteps growing fainter and fainter until, with the click of the door to her room shutting, they ceased entirely.


End file.
